


Requiem for a Starmaker

by cipherfresh



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Gen, NASA, Road Trip (Sort Of)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:48:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24878716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cipherfresh/pseuds/cipherfresh
Summary: Crowley's been up to no good for centuries. He's also been up to some virtues. American moon landing. What could go wrong?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	Requiem for a Starmaker

**Author's Note:**

> I read Good Omens fics for ages and wrote one. I got an AO3 almost half a year after I wrote this. I'm american, so the story might have some historical inaccuracies and ones about British culture.

“Oohh, I helped build that one.”

It was scary, admittedly, when the sun went down for the first time. It shouldn’t have bothered Crawly, he could see in the dark, but it wasn’t like being a demon constantly made the sky blue-. Colors were just more distinct for him and his eyes were fashioned to be much more efficient at taking in light to see. None of this was spelled out for him helpfully in a You’ve Just Fallen From Grace: 5 Amazing Tips to Love Your New Despicable Place in God’s Plan! brochure. Brochures that were handed out included tourism of the crater created when the Morningstar fell, and pools of superheated sulfur. Crawly had put it down after reading the first four lines, and stood in a large cavern before he was told to Get Up There And Make Some Trouble. Fortunately, he hasn’t seen very much of Hell. What he has seen was very close to the ground. 

There hadn’t been a conception of anything the opposite of Holy, not until the Fall. Corporations hadn’t been a thing, everybody paraded around with vaguely-humanoid bodies, or wheels of fire and multitudes of eyes, their wings and all other manner of limb and face. Corporations worked like this, see. There was a horrible, infernal lava-filled pool in Hell (holy water water fountain and waterfall in Heaven) where the paperwork would be sent to the computer, scanned and digitized, and the Pool of Energy would churn out a body. It would rise eerily (peacefully and relaxed, in Heaven’s case) and lifelessly, a perfect corpse, from the bottom of the pool, where the incorporeal form of the being would walk into the body and claim it. 

When Crowley Fell, his body had burned in the sulfur pools, his nerves already alight from the feeling of his body being compressed into a snake- one of Her last gifts to him. It wasn’t like losing his limbs was a help, as if less of his body would be in pain- his snake form was much bigger than most other snakes of Her creation. Not only did he have the memory and constant existence of being a demon, he had slitted yellow eyes, scales on his body that he hid with long sleeves and trousers, a brand on the side of his face, a forked tongue, and constant, desperate search for warmth wherever he could find it. 

Well, Crowley supposed, the warmth thing wasn’t specific to snakes, Hell was always on fire and burning to counteract the ice in one’s heart after being rejected by Heaven. Crowley specifically got spit in his, well, eyes- he wanted nothing more than to fit in with humans, to be popular, or even accepted- and he was the one cursed by God Herself. 

You know how magic is often based off belief and imagination? Crowley imagined that his car was fine, so it kept driving to Tadfield. It’s kinda like that. Aziraphale had spent six thousand years on Earth in a Micheal Sheen-looking human corporation, and he didn’t view his true self as the biblical description of an angel with eyes and wheels and limbs galore, but as gayer-than-a-treeful-of-monkies-high-on-nitrous-oxide, grandfather-looking english professor from the 1890s. (Otherwise known as a human being. You aren’t healing nanogenes from an intergalactic war, so please don’t think all humans look like Micheal Sheen. It would be nice if they did, I think, though.) So, Aziraphale imagined himself, even when lacking a corporation, to look like the person Crowley called ‘angel’ and fed ducks with. All the other angels in his platoon right before they were ready to fight before The-Apocalypse-That-Never-Was had already been given human corporations and they paraded around in heaven in them. Angels (and demons!) could technically do paperwork on computers in their True Forms (ultra-fast, slim, high-tech touchscreens in Heavenly cases, nineties-esque Apple II color computers in Hellish cases.

The animals scampered when dark came. They’d gotten used to it, it had happened for three days or so, and Crawly looked up as the sun went down. He wondered, did Adam and Eve know about the Fall? The stars in the sky? Did the moon scare them? It was a full moon tonight, hanging in the air, in full view. The desert they’d walked through together, being watched by an angel and a demon, both looking solemn, and straight ahead as the angel covered the demon with his wing, the first rain opening from the first cloudy skies. 

The rain had dissipated after fifteen minutes. When the angel lowered his wing, a bit awkwardly, Crawly said “I guess I’ll be, uh, off then.” he shifted back into a snake, and went to leave, before pausing-. “...thankssss.”- and slithered down the side of the wall. 

And, now, here he was. The sun going down, the real darkness, nothing stormclouds could manufacture. Crawly, still a snake, looked up. Twinkling lights, they looked so close while in Eden. What was the word for those things? They were on-fire balls of gas, Crawly knew, he’d helped make them, along with nebulas and galaxies and planets. What was the word? Not...oh, Crawly knew it had an ssss sssound, sssstellar, something like that. Crawly had built so much in Heaven, and he missed it dearly. Here he was, admiring them with physical eyes, from behind an atmosphere and the void of space and insurmountable distance, but it was his creation. One of his little marks on the world. He’d done something beautiful, and he could admire it. 

Crawly didn’t even get to admire his own creations in Heaven, he’d make them, then be told very forcefully to get work done on the next planet. 

Turning around, his view was blocked by trees and forest. A very determined snake-demon, Crawly slithered back up to the spot where the angel had been- the angel long gone, of course, who had nipped back to Heaven, probably to tell the Heavenly Host that they needed to collectively smite a single demon who had snuck into the Garden, tempted the humans and got them unfairly punished. 

Finally pulling up the rest of his sinuous body to the wet ground he had been standing on earlier, Crawly had a better view of the sky. A much better view, the sky almost illuminated blue from the imposing view of some nearby nebula. Crawly wondered what it would look like of the earth rotated a bit more, the moon would rotate with it and, hopefully, if things matched up, the moon would be full, and in view of the nebula. It would be a pretty sight, such a striking white from the moon illuminating the night, the foreground in front of a stunning blue pattern, accented by all those little things in the sky. Crawly watched as some blinked into existence, some had been created at the end of the first week, and their light was just now arriving. 

It felt like space was hanging over him, the Garden of Eden being grabbed from the Earth by an invisible hand and lifted into the true astral void. You couldn’t describe space as empty or black, there was the presence or a stellar celestial being or the glitzy colors of a galaxy an impossible distance away. The sight of seeing his creation nearly brought Crawly to tears. 

Being an ex-heavenly being, Crawly knew that the Earth was a sphere. He understood gravity, he understood atmosphere and oxygen, he understood that the ssss things he’d made were very distant. The closest things were the sun and the other planets in the solar system, and the moon. He couldn’t see the sun, for obvious reasons, and still staring at the blue nebula, the moon wasn’t in his peripheral vision. His eyes couldn’t spot any of the planets that he knew existed nearby, a result of their orbits, and his snake eyes being more even less well-suited for looking into the vast deep of outer space. 

However, Crawly knew EXACTLY what was out there. Massive spheres of gas, burning, held together by gravity and God’s Will, or something. Other planets, physical places to walk and exist on on human corporations. Not that Adam and Eve would go there, obviously, but if Crawly couldn’t visit the stars, on account of his wings. He really hoped, one day, humanity would be able to visit his stars, for him. He wanted another look at- stars! That was the word. STARS! Crawly had made stars! 

And, and, Crawly had helped with everything out in space. He’d built so much of it, and he was blessed proud of it! Stars, illuminating the garden, even if there wasn’t much light in general, there was still more there because he had built them. Crawly also liked to think that they were free of Heaven and God’s ridiculous rules, even if they had been punished for it. They would be better off. He had done that. He’d freed Adam and Eve, he’d built the stars…

Please wonder. Please question. Please be curious, Crawly hoped. Adam and Eve were destined to be fruitful and multiply. Hopefully one of them would send passing thoughts to the stars. 

\--------------------------

1957

Public education was always in interesting idea. He’d clearly never been in a school to receive an education like he was thinking about now, but he got by, humans never questioned him about his past. If they did, he could lie very smoothly. It had never been an issue, but Crowley thought it would be good to get an insider’s information. It would be funny if there was something that the British Government decided was important enough for good patriotic kids who served for King and Country to know, but Crowley, a 6000 year old demon, did not. Incredible, it was, from the days of feudalism a few short centuries ago to today, with taxpayer-funded education for all the kids to learn their maths and times tables. 

Schooling like this had existed for centuries, developing over time, but Crowley had never imagined things turn out the way they did. Hell said the United States was the Place To Be. The States gave him a sour taste in his mouth, despite promising beginnings. He’d visited twice. Once after electric lights were invented and he didn’t stay long. Crowley supposed it was better than when everyone was dying of the plague and stuffing flowers by their noses to stay immune. Second, in California during the summer in 1941. He didn’t do much, just a few one-on-one temptations for petty theft and fights, but he received a commendation for Korematsu vs United States a few months after the case, several years later. 

\---  
He hadn’t had any influence on Thomas Edison. Humans and electricity were a match made...somewhere.  
\---

Shapeshifting was an ability Crowley had acquired after the Fall. He was above shapeshifting into a child and faking a family, but he’d still like to know what little kids learned. Corrupt them early. If he felt ambitious, he could have some sort of law in place so kids had to learn about something to help corrupt them, though Crowley wasn’t sure what. It would require a lot of effort, though, something he wasn’t feeling up to now. 

Maybe he’d just find a position in a school and watch silently from a corner as a snake. 

Anyway, it was the beginning of an idea. He’d have to hammer it out sometime else. And, he had other business. Not Beelzebub zzemself, but somebody lower in the foodchain had determined the States was the place to be. Things like child labor and the Great Depression had been good business. He could do a lot of work there. And that plan about ‘putting a man on the moon by the end of the decade’ had promise. 

Something bibliophilic and prim kept him from being in the right place, right time to take credit for God Bless America’s sins. For the Arrangement, of course. Got to keep your hereditary enemy in check. Aziraphale had settled in London almost four hundred years ago, and Crowley liked the place. He didn’t need to go anywhere. 

The events of the war still fizzled in Crowley’s memory. He hadn’t visited either of the places the americans bombed in Japan, but he had visited the country in the 1620s. He went to pay his respects after the bombs in 1947 after the war ended. 

And, so, he’d headed to some school in London, miracled up an ID for one Anthony Crowley, with a PhD in childcare or something, to be a guidance counselor, just as the school year started in September. A month later, Sputnik 1 was launched. 

It wasn’t like Crowley spent a lot of time thinking about the atmosphere of the Earth. Of course not. There were five layers or something, the stratosphere weather one, a couple in the middle, and then the exosphere, where the air thinned out more than 6,000 miles from the Earth’s surface. There wasn’t a specific place where there Was Air and Wasn’t Air, it just thinned out until you lacked the ability to breathe. He knew this mostly because of an education of Earth given to him in Heaven, which he recalled vaguely, and sitting in on a lecture in a university. That’s where he got the 6,000 mile statistic. 

\---  
Heaven doesn't use measurements as stupid as miles.   
\---

He’d love to say he did incredible, in depth research by going in a plane or hot air balloon, or better yet, with his wings, but since the Fall, his wings had always bothered him. He’d learned to not have his wings out in Hell after returning from the Garden from his chat with the angel, some demon had attacked him for ‘showing off’ his intact wings. They had turned black, as standard during the Fall. He was lucky, other demons lose their wings entirely, or were reduced to little ones that couldn’t fly. Crawly was feebly going to ask someone to groom his, and in return he’d groom theirs, because discrepancies in their wings proved to feel bothersome and sometimes painful. 

Vulnerabilities were bad in Hell. Crawly was taught this very quickly. Luckily, he was assigned to Actively Permanent Earth Assignment- Human Temptation and Soul Corruption, so the only one he would have to worry about be attacked by for being different was humans. 

But, a space launch, something piercing the atmosphere from inside it and going out instead of the other way around was astounding. There were very few things that could say they’d broken the Earth’s atmosphere, that had started on Earth. Meteor showers and all gave the title of ‘breaking Earth’s atmosphere’ a bit less impressive than it sounds. Nonetheless, as the children chattered about the upcoming Halloween at the end of the month when they should be memorizing vocabulary words (Crowley was hiding as a snake from the ceiling, listening intently to conversation in a class of second-years), they were also getting the demon to think about Halloween. 

And, suddenly, Crowley had an idea. 

Crowley tried to be an optimist. His usual problem was turning from a human to a snake when he was overwhelmed or processing a lot of things, but he was already in his snake form, so he wasn’t going to do that. It was unlikely he’d accidentally turn human, because turning human required concentration. Despite that, Crowley calmed himself down in the vents above a classroom in the form of a snake, because he had wiggled around excitedly when he had gotten an idea. 

He wiggled back through the vents and into Mr. Crowley’s office. A venus flytrap sat in a pot on his desk, a gift from a student who he would be a guidance counselor to this year. He wondered if she gave all her teachers venus flytraps at the beginning of each school year, or it had just been the one with sunglasses and a snake tattoo, but he liked the plant. Whether she had or not, she seemed perfect for his plan. She was that type without a lot of friends, not much to do, and could be easily swayed to something with a sparkly sign. She had already somehow found that plants were something she liked, and venus flytraps specifically. If she liked ‘scary’ plants that ate insects, she’d be a perfect candidate for his plan- acting as a substitute one day and teaching kids how to use a ouija board. 

Bless, maybe he should have just become a substitute teacher. They would be given the things the kids needed to learn. He’d have to find another time and place to do it, but the substitute teacher thing was a good idea. 

The girl, her name was Annabelle, was in year six, and had some odd fondness and likely a place to grow venus flytraps, unless she bought Mr. Crowley a venus flytrap. Either way, she’d be perfect to make into a student of the occult. She’d probably confide in it due to her trouble making friends and acquaintances in school. The pieces were falling together. Now, the question was, what class of hers to make the teacher take a leave of absence from? Probably whatever class she liked the least, she’d hate to see her favorite teacher replaced. They’d already been in school for a month, she must know who the teachers she’d liked most were.

Only problem was, who did she like most? Crowley wasn’t the type to put feelings in people’s minds like Hastur, the whole point of temptations is that you make something look good, and the human makes the choice. Forcing them to do something defeated the whole purpose. It wasn’t a temptation, it was a command. Crowley rather liked humans’ whole Free Will thing. He couldn’t go around putting thoughts in her mind, or changing what teachers she liked. He wasn’t even doing the substitute teacher thing, right? His train of thought was a jumbled mess. 

This was going to take some work and effort. Maybe he should have just forced the Main Office in the school to include a unit about hedonism, or something. 

The schedule in the school had changed during the summer, unexpectedly. Crowley had joined, and he had the schedules altered to add a study hall. Maybe he’d start a club about the occult, get people excited for the Unholy And Evil Holiday That Was Halloween, and he’d have plenty of tempted souls by the time either he got bored of school or the project was a bust. He’d wind up doing something later. 

The plan was set up, and Crowley went to speak to Anabelle one of the days before the fourth of October, 1957. Although this wasn’t the only date like this, Crowley looked at his life as a series of Befores and Afters. There was Before the Fall, and After the Fall. Before meeting Aziraphale. Before realizing he could lie on reports. Before he realized he was looking for Aziraphale in the thousand years between Eden and Noah’s Ark...and After. Before Christ and After. 

Before ‘Holy Water Insurance’ and after. 

There was a new event, although those listed do include quite a bit more. Before humans breached the atmosphere with Sputnik 1 and After. 

Sputnik 1 is usually a footnote, nowadays, no, not a footnote, it does get some mention, it marked the beginning of the Space Race, the way we affectionately refer to it as, so it’s not a footnote, but it’s otherwise hardly mentioned. Believe me, it’s worth the google. 

Since our current 1957 Crowley isn’t aware of things that get more attention, he qualifies Sputnik 1 as a significant event. Maybe, one day, humans will go in their little spaceships like Sputnik, fitted for human life, like good movies from earlier in the decade, where humans travelled the stars...here the humans were, right now, with a real space probe. 

Even if Crowley couldn’t see his creations without a telescope, maybe some of those cosmonauts would. Humans were smart, with maths and science, they’d figure it out. Something more pessimistic in Crowley said they’ll figure out mutually assured destruction first. 

He didn’t like thinking about that. 

Sitting in his designer chair, which he preferred to stand on dramatically instead of sit on, he put his hand to his mouth to stop himself from crying because humans were going to see the stars. 

\----------------------------

Summer 1958

Occult Club was a bust. Crowley expected that, honestly, but it hurt now that it was the end of the year and he’d hardly accomplished anything. Well, he says he didn’t accomplish anything- he acted as a substitute multiple times throughout the year and ignored the lesson plans, teaching kids how oujia boards worked and the pleasures of spending other people’s money. He also had an incredible Halloween, where he dressed up as dragon and tempted children to steal candy from other children. They wound up giving him most of it, so Crowley was satisfied. He had also made progress with Anabelle, who had moved at the end of the year after summer started. She had gotten interested in the occult, but also into snakes and reptiles because Mr. Crowley had a pet snake. That’s why he had the tattoo, no other reason. 

The last day of school, Crowley, with no mortal possessions other than a venus flytrap he’d acquired at the beginning of the year, stayed in the building to cause trouble with other teachers who were moving their supplies. He’d accidentally convinced one of the teachers in an unexpected therapy session to tell her husband that she didn’t want kids, she’d been scared to the whole time because her husband wanted them. He wished his coworker the best and helped her move things to her car. 

He waved as she drove off, and looked back up at the sky, which was dotted in stars. On the first night he’d been on Earth, there weren’t constellations. Well, they existed, but they hadn’t been identified. Crowley sat down in the grass for a little while and stared at the sky. The school was pretty far from any major city, so there wasn’t any light pollution to get in the way. Just him, the atmosphere, and his creation hanging above him. 

\--------------------

March 1969

Hell had never really given up on the Move to the States! Thing, and he couldn’t exactly tell them that moving to the United States was quite literally the last thing he ever wanted to do. One, humans were sinful enough, and the States were a perfect example of how humans could do horrible things, without demonic temptations. And, Aziraphale didn’t live in the States. Oh, and another reason, God had a stupid american accent and he refused to live anywhere where he’d constantly hear people who sounded as annoying and stuck-up as Her. 

Reading the words manned spacecraft in big black letters in newspaper headings and on telly hadn’t sunk in when he first read them, but he thought for a couple of hours and stared at his television set when he woke up two weeks ago. Crowley, being a very odd snake-demon-man, liked to avoid the cold months by sleeping them off. He didn’t always do it, but he liked to escape the cold sometimes and ‘hibernate’ from November to February. The BBC had done a TV special recapping the events of all human activities in space, from intercontinental missiles in 1957 to the recent Apollo 8 entering the moon’s gravitational orbit. 

Humans were gonna see the stars. Please don’t let me down, Crowley hoped. Humans, you’re so smart. Use that big brain of yours for something productive, something good. 

Despite the bit with the apple, Crowley didn’t like to think of himself as some loving hand guiding humanity with every step. He was more like their uncle that gave them a million-pound check and told them to have fun. 

So, March 1969, Crowley staring at the telly he had in his flat. Watching an odd news broadcast recapping the history of the space race, even if it wasn’t called that yet. One of his projects in 1967 was still paying off, so he wasn’t in a hurry to do any work, he didn’t need to jump out of bed and do anything. When the helpful recap by the BBC finished, he flicked through some channels. He could go and do a temptation on some unsuspecting human, but he didn’t feel like it, and it was still cold. 

Something else he could do was reassure his presence to Aziraphale, show that he hadn’t killed himself with the holy water. Not that Crowley had even thought about it, but Aziraphale had been so scared. They’d exchanged phone numbers in 1941, Crowley dropping Aziraphale off, and doing everything he could to get Aziraphale to invite him inside. He’d turned the car off, got out of it, and rested his arms on the top and continued the awkward conversation they’d had in the car. It hadn’t worked, and Aziraphale gave him the strangest, most pained look, and headed inside the bookshop, closing the door. 

So much for olive branches. 

Of course he’d still hold a hand out for Aziraphale if he ever decided to turn up. But Crowley wasn’t going to wait for him to come crawling back. Crowley had an immortal life to live, people to tempt, movies to watch and places to be. He absolutely would be Aziraphale’s friend again if the angel wanted. 

He wasn’t, absolutely wasn't going to focus on you go to fast for me, Crowley. 

He’d be going slow by staying away from him, but leaving his hand out, right? Thinking about his, uh, affectionately named Driving Speed Problem was upsetting, so Crowley decided he didn’t want to think about it. 

Cool! Crowley wanted a new thing to think about. Something that wasn’t Aziraphale. Clearly failing at this, Crowley walked over to his safe, looking at the numbers 4 and 0, the two numbers he’d need to hit to open the safe. The tartan-patterned holy water thermos was in there.   
No. I don’t want to think about Aziraphale. Maybe I should do some temptations- that got him thinking about the Arrangement. 

Breathing heavily, and growling like dog, Crowley impulsively kicked over a potted plant in anger. The ceramic pot shattered, and the soil in it spilled, the recently planted seeds spilling out as well. Seeing the result of his little tantrum, the anger that had built up in Crowley dissipated like smoke in the wind. He snapped, and it was a pristine, perfect little ceramic-potted plant. The pieces disappeared and the soil was perfect now. Crowley would love to say his miracle to fix the plants also got rid of the sudden tears in his eyes or solved the problem if his little tantrum. 

Very unbecoming of a demon, Crowley sighed, the weight of the world clearly on his shoulders. He wiped his eyes, he hadn’t cried much. Human corporations were cruel and swift, so Crowley’s head started to hurt. He decided, very masculinely and in a way that didn’t compromise his cool-guy look, that he didn’t need aspirin or need to try miracling it away. 

\---  
Crowley didn’t expect miracles to work on the headache. Therefore, they didn’t. He still tried, but he never expected it to work. Do the math.   
\---

Ever since the Driving Speed Incident, and Crowley ‘decided’ he ‘didn’t need Aziraphale’, although he was 100% willing to be his friend again, Crowley decided to be his own demon. He had a bookshelf of books he liked, some of them gifts from Aziraphale, some of them gifts from author friends, some stolen, some purchased. Two years ago, Crowley put the books in storage, and made his bookshelf another wine cabinet. There was wine you didn’t need to refrigerate (Crowley thought) so he kept his non-refrigerating wine in the ex-bookshelf. 

\---   
Crowley was under the impression Aziraphale had never lied to him. There were moments like “We’re not friends!” or “I’m fine.” but Aziraphale usually said it in a way that was obvious he was lying. He would be stressed, or cold, and very unlike himself. But Crowley was 100% sure Aziraphale didn’t lie to him about important things. He had 100% certainty the water in the thermos was holy. This assumption (the first one) was wrong, Aziraphale had lied to Crowley with a straight face in the past and Crowley totally believed him. Aziraphale did feel bad about lying. Not because lying was wrong, but because he was lying to Crowley.  
\---

Books and reading were for nerds who liked books and reading. Crowley wasn’t a nerd who liked books and reading. Not very demonic. 

Something that was demonic, and it wasn’t because Crowley made the stars in Heaven, and he liked outer space, no sir, something that was demonic because it might lead to WW3 and could do plenty of temptations for him, was space exploration. 

The astronomy-enthusiast demon bought a ticket to Orlando, the closest city in Florida to the Kennedy Space Center that very same week. It would be his third time to America, and he was a demon on a mission. Not one to pass up an opportunity like this, Crowley very helpfully informed Hell of his upcoming trip to the States. Pencil-pushers in Hell could probably check off a box on a checklist, and Crowley had an idea. He wasn’t moving there, but a plan was forming in his mind. 

Two Weeks Later, Mid-March 1969

ORLANDO, FLORIDA, UNITED STATES

The snake-demon-man should have considered himself lucky he’d only visited the warmer parts of America. California, Georgia, and now Florida. He’d always fancied the idea of visiting New York, especially since he received a commendation for the chaos caused by the Prohibition. He didn’t like the city until the country allowed alcohol again, but since the 21st amendment, he hated the States slightly less. 

The point was, the three states he’d visited now, were some of the warmer ones. Despite the time being March, it was always agreeable temperatures. He’d struck up conversation with some american on the plane, and they’d said to him some meaningless Fahrenheit garbage about seventy degrees even during the winter. He resisted the urge to make fun of him for using such a poor system of temperature measurement, but he smiled and thanked the man. 

Look, Crowley thought. If it is seventy degrees outside, everything is on fire. Nothing was on fire when he left the plane, but being a demon, fire still on his mind, made one of the wheels catch fire unexpectedly by the time everyone had already left. It would cause some delays and people would be tempted into Wrath. See? It all works out. 

A bit sad to leave his beloved Bentley behind, Crowley had assured himself the temporary absence of it would be better than the trouble of moving it to a foreign country for a temporary visit. He stole a car from long-term parking (he didn’t feel like talking to anybody today to get a rental. The plane had drained him of energy for social interactions for things as horrible as humans.((It’s always planes that show the best and worst in humans, innit?)) Having to hear another person talk to him today might make him snap.) and so the demon made his way to Kennedy Space center. 

The car he’d stolen had personal items left in there. Crowley prided himself on his ability to drive, unaware most of the work was done because that’s how Crowley expected cars to work. He would just make his car (any car, really) drive magically as he took a nap in the backseat, but he liked the freeing feeling of driving. It was a middle-finger to Hell, in a way. Today, however, Crowley did feel like taking a nap in the backseat. Well, I say backseat, more like passenger’s seat. He climbed into the seat on the left and was very surprised to see the steering wheel on the passenger’s side. Right. American car. Somebody had said to him american cars were screwy. 

\---  
You may be asking, if Crowley expected the steering wheel to be on the right, why didn’t the car behave accordingly? Some things are beyond demonic magic because they’re genuinely that horrible. This is a common theme in the United States. American things being ‘genuinely that horrible.’   
\---

One of the personal items left in the car was a newspaper, which Crowley read as his stolen car fermented in Orlando road traffic. It drove itself to the Kennedy Space Center, ignoring any obstacles in it’s path. Crowley miracled up a newspaper from home (London) when he finished up the american one and read curiously about the transition to the third Doctor on that show on telly he’d heard about. The american newspaper had also included a section on the cancellation of Star Trek. He’d watched it since it came out, but he hadn’t watched Doctor Who. He had heard of it, though. It was supposed to be some kid’s historical show. Sounded dumb.

Kennedy Space Center. Something Crowley appreciated about humans was their ability to decide that something was somebody else’s problem. Crowley paraded up and down the halls of the imposing white building, an ID badge for the nonexistent job of “Apollo Project Upper Manager”. He wondered if he should do an american accent, and he’d tried to do one in the men’s bathroom in the mirror, but failed utterly. He stopped after that. Crowley didn’t feel like being embarrassed by doing an accent in an empty bathroom in Kennedy Space Center, he had a job to do. Before leaving the bathroom and theatrically readjusting his tie, he tried one more line in a failed american accent: “Get your stinking paws off me you d- oh, no, I can hardly do that.” and “You maniacs! You blew it up!” before succumbing to embarrassed laughter, dropping the accent halfway through and giving up. 

\---  
Planet of the Apes is still, to this day, one of Crowley’s favourite movies. He doesn’t like it more than any of the James Bond movies, though. 21st century Crowley happens to like Tony Stark.  
\---

Movies, Crowley had determined one time, were one of humans’ best inventions. 

Speaking of movies, and maybe american accents, Aziraphale could do a scarily accurate one. Crowley had suggested being ‘Not Mr. Fell’ as a way to scare off customers, in 1803, when Aziraphale got his first not-customer. Aziraphale realized he didn’t want to sell his books, and having a bookshop was counterintuitive to this sentiment, but he’d already gone through the trouble of making it a bookshop. It wasn’t like humans were required to buy books, so Aziraphale would just make sure, on the odd occasion a human tries to make a purchase, that they don’t. Simple enough. 

No. Crowley was not going to think about Aziraphale. He was his own demon, about to pull off the temptation of a lifetime, sometime before the americans put a man on the moon. 

“Mr. Crowley. Nice to meet you.” A man had extended his hand. Coming back to reality, standing in the middle of the hallway, Crowley shook the hand of the gruff-sounding man in front of him. Crowley had left the bathroom and stumbled around, looking for someplace important. He hadn’t had a specific idea of what he was going to do when he got to the Space center, just that it should be enough to get Hell off his back. 

Another thing that Crowley liked to think, was that he knew how certain types of people were, and this was to his advantage as a demon, a tempter, a creature of sin, who was in awe of all the fancy technology in the building. It’d be a shame if a group like this wouldn’t be able to do the projects they wanted. A big group of smart minds in one place. 

Maybe the terminology should have been ‘cursing’ humans, because as much as he tempted humans into doing bad things to corrupt their souls, he also often did a lot of curses- cursing the bathrooms empty of toilet paper, which pissed people off and often made them late to places when the situation was dealt with. Making them lose their keys, the little things. 

The man was very polite, and he laughed at a couple of Crowley’s jokes, told him he had a sexy accent, and may have been flirting with Crowley. As lunchtime rolled around, he talked about how his father had fought in both of the wars, and it felt like World War 3 was just around the corner. They did bomb drills every week at his son’s school, as if the radiation wasn’t going to get you if you hid under the table. 

Every day, for the whole month, Crowley showed up at the Space Center and clocked in, 9-5. He checked into a hotel, because you can’t plan something as important as Crowley’s current idea with six hours of sleep. 

Well, Crowley said he was coming up with something. He had a dumb little notebook where he scribbled things into, including doodles of planets and stars. Words like tempt people into wrath by destroying projects?? Causing power-outs -flat tires to important people??

Ideas like that. Crowley could technically do worse things to slow down the project, he could tempt some of the workers to sleep with each other and hope that a jealous housewife kills in revenge, he could plant a fake soviet spy, since americans were so concerned about their size-measuring competition. Crowley could do all manner of horrible thong and curse the project, and people would definitely sin along the way. -But he didn’t want to. Beelzebub had suggested to ‘bring more of those atom-bomb thingzzz to zzpace and drop zzem from the zzzky!” 

Nuclear threat sounded promising, but a lot of effort. Although, war with nuclear weapons now would mean Armageddon, though Crowley never pictured humans doing it without an antichrist. Something he remembered from yet another brochure he’d acquired, a brochure acquired in 1000, to celebrate the (rough) last thousand years of Heaven’s snivelling and miserable existence. The Earth would exist for six thousand years, and it shall end in fire and flame. The antichrist would be sired, and probably be able to use his powers on his eleventh birthday. He’d start armageddon, Hell would defeat those harp-pluckers up in Heaven, and it would be fire and torture for all the dead human souls.

So...Crowley would know if the antichrist was born yet, right? Had Hell not told him? He needed time before the end of the world, he had to unload long-term stocks, do a couple of things on his bucket list, lots of things. Unless Hell had told him the antichrist was born and he just forgot.

Uhh...can we mark that down as a possibility? ‘The antichrist has been born, but I just forgot.’ Crowley considered the possibility of that. Low chance, he determined. He was fairly sure the antichrist wasn’t born yet. 

The realization that Crowley didn’t want to do any temptations, that he wanted everything to go right, for humans to land on the moon came at the end of March. George Victor, the friend, had invited him for a drink at a bar after work. Hesitantly, Crowley accepted. The only reason being because american beer wasn’t as good as british beer. Nothing else to do with drinking or what crowley thought about or what he reminisced about when he saw a good 200-year-old Chateauneuf-du-Pape. 

Crowley’s work at NASA continued. 

Since Florida wasn’t in the same spot as Britain, you could see different stars when you sat outside on a clear night. Maybe he should have visited the States sooner, you could see this one collection of stars that he’d never seen with his naked eye on Earth before. Crowley was lying on the top of his stolen car, staring at the sky. Did the people he’d stolen the car from want it back? Likely, they expected to have their car back when they returned home. Where were they visiting, Crowley wondered? Orlando must be their home, or at least the closest airport. 

Crowley wanted to go home. A month of work at NASA and he hadn’t done anything. Along with his goal of accomplishing some sort of temptation while he was there, and getting dangerously close to telling his friend about Aziraphale and his life ‘back home in England’ 

In an impulse decision, deciding he had nothing to show for himself, Crowley erased George Victor’s memory of him. George had lamented his life to Crowley, about how he and his girlfriend had gotten into a big fight, broke up, and didn’t talk for months. As much as crowley didn’t want to think about Aziraphale- he knew he couldn’t stay away forever. Crowley drove back to Orlando, parked the car back where he’d found it, cursed cars with steering wheels on the left, and got a flight back to London-Heathrow. 

Well, technically, Crowley did have something to show for himself, but he wasn’t sure it would work. George had made a comment about how landing on the moon could backfire, it might be a show of dominance to other countries at the risk of pissing them off, and the nuclear bombs might start falling again. Crowley was fairly sure that if Apollo was successful, it wouldn’t be seen like that, but there was always this fear about it. 

“Maybe you’re thinking about it the wrong way. Maybe the States need to be more aggressive. America should claim the moon for themselves, put the flag on the surface or something.” 

Not that Crowley thought it would go anywhere, but George Victor must’ve told somebody else before Crowley wiped George Victor’s memory. Crowley would just have to wait to see it came to fruition. He hoped not, the idea of the americans ‘claiming’ the moon seemed odd, but he’d just have to wait. 

JULY 15th, 1969, LONDON

A flight back to London, of course, and Crowley had learned some stuff about astronomy during his time, which was better than having gotten nothing done. He flattened some people’s tires before he left, a fantastically demonic and sinful act. 

In a bar, thinking about how a temptation had gone wrong in June, Crowley mumbled to himself and looked around the building. He’d gone to see a movie earlier that day, and it felt like the movie was screaming out to him, TALK TO AZIRAPHALE. Maybe something had reminded him of George Victor. No matter what he did, he couldn’t get the angel out of his thoughts. 

Being a mature and responsible demon, Crowley hid those thoughts deep down and tried not to think anymore about Aziraphale. 

JULY 16TH, 1969, CROWLEY’S FLAT

Watering your plants while irritable wasn’t fun, Crowley almost wound up talking to himself in his empty flat. He kept turning the telly on and off, seeing if there was any news about the moon launch. When the time came, Crowley sat very still, on his uncomfortable couch, and watched the broadcast. He was completely silent, snakeskin boots on the couch, hugging a pillow. Sunglasses off. 

Crowley had dreams about making the stars in Heaven that night, all those years ago. 

JULY 20TH 1969

Any available telly had been crowded around almost every hour since the launch a couple of days ago. Usually, any bar that Crowley went to would be filled with loud chatter, but it was all hushed whispers as the BBC reported on three tellies how the mission had gone so far, showed interviews from american scientists at NASA, and had a feature about the personal lives of all of the astronauts. 

Poor footage from Apollo 11 was being shown. The talking got louder as time went on. Crowley was sitting in the Dirty Donkey, a pub he wasn’t a stranger in. Impulsively, Crowley rushed to a telephone box across the street and dialed Aziraphale’s number. 

“Crowley?”  
“Aziraphale, where are you? Actually, doesn’t matter. Find a telly. Any telly. Just a close one. You live in Soho, there must be one in a nearby. I don’t care if you need to break into someone’s house, but you need to find a telly.”  
“I’m afraid I don’t understand-”  
“Aziraphale.”  
“Okay. I’ll find a telly. What channel would I be looking at? I still don’t understand what I’m going to be watching.”

The demon in the phonebox took a deep breath. “Find the BBC, it won’t be hard. It’s the moon landing.”  
“Moon landing?”  
“Yes, moon landing!”

There’s some silence. 

“I’ll find a television set, dear boy, and call you back.”  
“Wait!-”  
Aziraphale hangs up. 

That hurt. Crowley walked back across the street, and sat down in a seat. Quiet as a mouse, Crowley watched the start of the landing at The Dirty Donkey. The nearest phone was the telephone box across the street, so he didn’t know if Aziraphale was watching it at all. 

Entirely captivated by the low-res footage, Crowley didn’t acknowledge the hand on his shoulder. “Hey.” 

Aziraphale.

“Mind if I join you?” This startled Crowley, suddenly looking up. Everyone in the bar shushed him, and Crowley patted the seat next to him welcomingly. 

“I don’t mind at all. Sit down.”


End file.
